


the grief that is in his breast

by procellous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Death, Childbirth, Communication Failure, Dear god someone help these children, Domestic Violence, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Ramsay Snow/Sansa Stark, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Non-Linear Narrative, Protective Robb Stark, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Reunited and It Hurts So Good, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb Stark is Trying His Best, Robb Stark is a Gift, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), Stillbirth, Storytelling, Suicide Attempt, Torture, the wolves are the only smart ones and they are VALID, thinking people are dead who are not dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: It's not enough that Robb Stark has reclaimed Winterfell, slain Ramsay Bolton, and saved the day. He has to save tomorrow, too.
Relationships: Rickon Stark & Robb Stark, Rickon Stark & Sansa Stark, Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Rickon Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here it is, the worst au! that isn't actually the _worst_ AU, because I've come up with worse AUs since I started writing this. it is still the worst AU because I had to carve this chapter out of a 10k block of words that were just "Robb runs around Winterfell, putting out fires"
> 
> title from the Wanderer

Robb sagged against a wall, trying to catch his breath, a few quiet tears collecting in his beard. Winterfell was in ruins. His home was torn apart. There was smoke still curling up from the battle, the screams and silence of the wounded filling the courtyard. Men and horses lay dead or dying around him. Robb’s sword was slick with blood, but his grip on it was iron-tight. 

Grey Wind was pawing at Ramsay’s corpse. Robb watched with an absent gaze. Somehow, he thought that retaking Winterfell would feel good, and not like he’d just delivered a mercy kill to a wounded man. He could barely recognize the burned out husk. 

At least they matched now. Sometimes Robb felt like he was simply watching the King in the North going to war, while Robb remained shut away inside. 

Sansa was supposed to be here, somewhere. The thought of his sweet, idealistic sister married to a man like Ramsay made him shudder. Rickon, too, if the bastard’s letter could be believed. Shaggydog had already disappeared into the castle. 

And Theon was here, if Theon was alive. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted that or not. 

Grey Wind retrieved a keyring from an inside pocket of Ramsay’s jerkin and trotted off into the castle. Robb followed. Grey Wind knew more than he seemed to, sometimes, and was the better tracker of the two of them. 

The halls of Winterfell had never been so unfamiliar. Pieces were missing from the walls, the tapestries torn, the stone smoke-stained and the rushes on the floor smelling of blood. Grey Wind led him up stairs after stairs, to one of the short, squat towers in the main keep, secured by a heavy oak door and iron fittings. The scent of blood was stronger here. It was intense for him; it must be unbearable for the wolf’s sensitive nose. 

_Please_ , he prayed, to whichever gods were listening, _let Sansa be alive, let me not be too late. Not again. I can’t bear it again, please._

He fumbled at the keyring, trying to fit keys into the lock. His haste made him slow and clumsy. There was blood on the stone under the door, old and dried. 

The keys slipped from his red hands and hit the ground with a harsh jangle of metal. Robb shoved at the locked door uselessly with a cry of inarticulate rage, a spike of emotion that faded quickly into the urge to sob, helpless as a babe. Grey Wind was still whining and whimpering, his claws scratching at the wood. 

“Please,” he whispered. 

The door ignored him. 

He heard a choked sob from the other side, and something in him gave way. He kicked at the door, heel landing next to the lock. Wood splintered. He stabbed where he had kicked, his sword driving through the wood, then drew it out and kicked again. 

The door splintered away from the lock and swung free. 

The room was dark; there was only a small, narrow window high in the wall, and no candles. The bed was a mess of torn, bloodied sheets. A heavy iron chain ran from the footboard, across bloody stone and shattered fragments of mirrored glass, to the prisoner. 

Robb felt ill. 

She looked like she’d run through all seven hells. She was terribly thin; there were hollows in her cheeks, her eyes sunken and dull. Her hair was tangled and limp, her thin chemise tattered and splotched with rust-brown and bright red. Blood ran down her arms from a long shard of mirror that she held against her throat. 

“Sansa,” he said. He barely recognized his own voice, hoarse with hope and fear.

“Don’t come near me.” Her voice was flat. The shard dug deeper into her neck. Robb winced as a drop of blood welled up. 

His sword hit the ground with a clatter. “Sansa,” he said. “Sansa, it’s me.”

She didn’t ease her grip. He pulled off his helmet, letting it roll to a stop by his sword. His sweaty hair fell into his eyes. 

“See? Sansa, please, look at me, it’s just me, you’re safe now.” He dropped the keys as well. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.” He held out his arms, showing her his empty hands. 

“Stay back.” She tightened her grip on the glass. A fresh gush of blood streamed down her arms. Robb shifted his weight back. 

She looked like an animal in a trap. She still wasn’t looking at him; she was looking past him, like she was seeing something—some _one_ —who wasn’t there. 

He crouched down, kneeling in front of her. “Sansa, I’m here to rescue you, I’ve taken Winterfell. Nobody will hurt you. I’m going to keep you safe, I promise.”

Her eyes flickered to his face and over to where Grey Wind was standing. Her lips moved soundlessly.

“Ramsay can’t hurt you anymore. I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.”

“I tried,” she whispered. “I tried to be good, an-and ladylike, and everything hurts and I can’t, I can’t do this anymore…”

Stabbing him would have hurt less. Robb shifted forward, holding out his hands. Sansa flinched back, a trickle of blood running down the makeshift blade. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “It’s alright. I’m going to make it alright.”

She shook her head. “I’m ruined. I’m useless to you.”

“No. Never.”

“I am! Nobody’s going to want to marry me now, not after what _he_ did, and what I’ve done…you can’t fix this, Robb.”

“Yes, I can,” he said, feeling like a child. “I’m a king. Whatever is wrong, I’ll fix it. You don’t have to get married, you have other…uses, if you want to call it that. Nobody is going to hurt you again.”

“I’m broken. I am. He broke me.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re alive. You can heal.”

“I shouldn’t be. It should have been me instead of…”

One tear slid down her cheek, followed by another. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. The makeshift blade slipped out of her hand, and Robb knocked it as far away as possible. She collapsed into his arms, and he held her close as she sobbed. 

“You’re safe,” he said. “You’re safe, you’re safe, I’m here, everything’s going to be alright, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“I thought you were dead.” She sniffled. “I’m getting blood on you.”

“I’ve been covered in worse,” he said, trying to smile. “Let me get you bandaged.” He reached for the hem of his tunic, tearing at the cloth. Sansa flinched at the sound. 

“There’s bandages in the chest by the bed,” she said. “I’ll get them.” She moved to stand, and Robb noticed cuts on her feet and legs.

“No, no, sit back down, I don’t want you cutting yourself on the glass.” She shouldn’t be sitting in the sea of shards, either. “I’m going to pick you up and put you on the bed, alright? Just while I bandage you, then we’ll get out of here.”

She was so, so light in his arms. Glass shards crunched under his boots as he carried her across the room. He set her on the bed, noticing the way she shifted to be on the edge by the foot, far from the wall and the lump of blankets. 

He glanced at the bundle, surprised to see a tiny foot sticking out. Gently, he pulled the top blanket away to find a baby, small enough to be a newborn, with a curl of dark red hair. His eyes were closed as though asleep, but…something was wrong. 

It took him a moment to realize what it was. The baby’s chest wasn’t moving. It couldn’t have been long; the body was still warm under his hand. 

_It should have been me instead of…_

Robb opened the chest, trying not to think about it, not sure how or what to ask. There were several rolls of bandages—most of them looking suspiciously like they had once been a dress and nearly all of them stiff with bloodstains—and a small, nearly empty jar of honey. He picked out the cleanest looking of them. 

He knelt in front of her, carefully turning her hands over to inspect the gashes on her palms. 

“These look like they’ll need stitches,” he said. 

“I’ve had worse.” Sansa’s smile was as weak and flickering as a candle in a draft. “That’s not comforting, is it?”

“It’s really not, no,” Robb said. His own smile felt terribly weak. “I have a maester with my army, he can patch you up properly, but these will do for now.” He tied off the first bandage. “Sansa, about the babe…”

She looked away. “Please, don’t.”

“He’s yours, isn’t he?”

“It was Ramsay’s,” she said, quietly. “And I couldn’t let him raise it.”

A terrible thought occurred to him. He didn’t want to think it was even possible for Sansa, but…

_What I’ve done…you can’t fix this, Robb._

“It didn’t make a sound.” Her voice was flat, but tears rolled down her cheeks. “Like it didn’t know what was happening. And then it was over. I thought it would take longer. I had to do it. I couldn’t let Ramsay raise it, and you wouldn’t want to have Ramsay’s heir around. Better that I did it painlessly. I could give it that much.”

Robb wanted to weep. He focused on tying the bandage around her hand instead, trying not to think about the small, still body in the nest of blankets, trying not to think about Sansa holding her baby and gathering her resolve.

And somehow she thought that he would ever want a child dead. Even Ramsay’s child, even if he wasn’t also Sansa’s, and yet—he knew why she would think that. The fates of a defeated lord’s wife and son were never pleasant. Sansa would know that better than most.

“And…” Her voice had the smallest of tremors. “We were locked in. If you hadn’t found us…”

They would have starved. Slowly, painfully, abandoned and alone in the blood-soaked room. If he had been delayed—if he had been wounded, and couldn’t get to her as soon as he did—she might have thought that no one was coming for her at all, that she had been forgotten and abandoned, left to die alone. He could have found his sister’s body next to his nephew’s, her throat cut open like their mother’s had been. 

Worse, it could have been one of his men who found them. He didn’t want to think that anyone who followed him would harm children, but he had been wrong about that before.

He had come so close to losing her. 

“Did he have a name?” he asked, softly. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in soft, warm blankets and keep her locked away where he could keep her safe and nothing could harm her again. 

Sansa shook her head. “I couldn’t name it.”

Grey Wind padded over, snuffling at the blanket nest. He whined and licked the baby. Robb could _feel_ Grey Wind’s distress, filling the room. The wolf jumped up on the bed, curling around the baby. 

Robb squeezed Sansa’s wrist, gently, drawing her attention away from Grey Wind. 

“Tilt your head up for me? I want to bandage your neck.”

There was an older scar there, thin and pale with age, and the still-bleeding cut from the shard. Robb gently wrapped the bandage around her. 

“Is that too tight? I don’t want to choke you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Good.” There were cuts on her legs and feet, but all were shallow scrapes, already half-healed. There were scars, too, peeking through the hem of her chemise and around the heavy iron manacle on her ankle; a set of lines above her knees, visible in holes, and he didn’t want to know how far up her thighs they went; and a mass of scars on the soles of her feet. His poor, sweet sister. “I think, since you don’t have shoes, it’ll be best if I carry you out. Alright?”

She nodded, looking at the floor in front of him. 

“Let me just unlock this, and we’ll get out of here.” He fumbled for the keys, trying to keep his hands steady. “Do you know which key it is?”

Sansa shook her head. “One of the big ones, I think.”

It was a big one with a bloodstain that opened the lock, and Robb didn’t want to think about where the blood had come from, not when the shackle was falling away from her and clattering against the stone. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said, lifting her far too easily. Her head rested against his shoulder, her eyes slipping closed. Even with her heartbeat thudding against his arm, even with her breath ghosting across his shoulder, it felt far too much like he was carrying her body.

Grey Wind whined at them as they left, not moving from where he was curled around the baby.

Robb didn’t have much of a plan beyond ‘out of the tower,’ but his childhood room still had a bed in it, and that was good enough. He set Sansa down on the dusty bed, draping his cloak around her shoulders for warmth and at least the semblance of comfort. 

“I’ll get the maester for you, to stitch you back up. And something to eat, though I can’t promise it’ll be any good.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said. Robb kissed her forehead. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised. She nodded, clinging to the cloak. “And if there’s anything I can do, just ask, I want to help you.”

She didn’t respond, just drew the cloak around her. She didn’t seem to notice when Robb left. 

He went back up to the tower room, first. His sword and helmet were still lying on the floor where he had dropped them. He picked them up again, wincing; Ser Rodrik would have had his head for treating his sword so disrespectfully. 

Grey Wind was still curled around the baby, nosing and snuffling at it. Robb pushed his snout away. The baby was so, so small; it had barely lived at all. Robb brushed a dark red curl away from his closed eyes, lifting the baby into his arms. Long instinct from four younger siblings had him tucking the baby against his chest on instinct. 

His brow knit. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, maybe it had been his arms shifting the baby, but he could have sworn that he saw his face move. 

“Come on, Grey Wind, let’s go.” Grey Wind trotted happily after him. Robb scratched his ears. The wolf didn’t know what was happening, and Robb envied him. “He deserves a proper burial, at least.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flashback time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: violence, Theon being suicidal, domestic/spousal abuse, assorted Ramsay Shenanigans and Theon Angst.

The baby was crying when Ramsay opened the door and shoved Theon in. He hit the floor on hands and knees, his bones crying out in protest.

He glanced up. Sansa was on the bed, the baby in her arms. She was trying to soothe him. Theon's heart ached in mingled fear and love.

Ramsay kicked Theon aside and crossed the room to Sansa. Theon's vision went dark with pain, but he heard Sansa's cry as Ramsay pulled her hair, yanking her head back; he heard Ramsay snarling at her to shut that thing up, what sort of worthless mother was she; he heard Sansa's choked sob.

He gave a grunt of pain as he shifted. He couldn't move much, Ramsay had whipped his feet again and he was half-conscious already, but if he could distract Ramsay, even for a moment, it would be worth it. _Not her, not her, she's one of the last good things left here._ Sansa deserved so much better than this.

Ramsay's boot struck his ribs. Theon was never sure whether they were broken or cracked. Probably both, at this point. He wouldn't be very entertaining for Ramsay tonight, not with the way he was struggling to stay awake.

He forced his eyes to open. He needed to stay awake. He wanted to see her.

Sansa wore rings of bruises around her neck and arms instead of jewelry. Her hair hung limp and lank and dark from neglect, and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. The sight of her made him want to be a hero and slay the monster.

The sight of her reminded him how well that had gone last time.

Another kick. His vision was going dark again. Maybe he would die like this, kicked to death on the floor of Sansa's bedchamber-prison. An ignominious end for the Prince of the Iron Islands. He would have laughed if he remembered how. Some prince he was. Dying like a dog—well, Ramsay had made Reek his dog. It suited. But he probably wouldn't die. He hadn't died in all this time, and he doubted that any god would let him die. Mercy was in short supply, and none of it could be wasted on him. 

"Perhaps you're wondering why I've brought Reek with me tonight, my lady wife."

"I was, my lord. You have not seen fit to permit me to see him since the birth." Sansa's voice was weak.

"Reek here has been a naughty boy and upset our little lordling, and so he must be punished. I thought you might like to watch."

"Th-thank you, my lord." Sansa glanced down at Theon. Guilt twisted in his stomach. Rickon had been so strong and so brave ever since Ramsay threw him in the cell next to Theon's, and then Theon had yelled at him until he cried because he couldn't bear to see him hoping for a rescue that wouldn't come.

"But there is good news, as well. Soon we can have a little family get-together. You and me and our son meeting whoever it is pretending to be a Stark that's marching on Winterfell. I've no idea who it could be, since the only living Stark is the little lordling, but I'm sure we'll find out." He patted Sansa's head. "I'll bring you their head, and you can tell me if you recognize them."

A Stark army. Rickon's dreams were true, then, and Theon had been wrong as usual. Robb was coming. Somehow, impossibly, Robb was coming.

"I'm sure your forces will win, my lord, but what if the impossible happens and they should take the castle?"

Ramsay smiled. "Why, then I would kill you myself before I let anyone touch a hair on your head. And you will be quite secure, you know that when the door is locked it is difficult for anyone to hear you."

It wasn't, actually. Theon often heard Sansa screaming through the locked door. Nobody left in Winterfell would respond to them, though; screams were as commonplace and unremarkable as birdsong in summer. But Sansa didn't know that, and Theon didn't dare give her comfort, if that could be called comfort. Ramsay heard everything, eventually.

"Reek, get up."

Theon pulled himself upright, every muscle and nerve and bone in his body ablaze with pain. It was always worse if he resisted, and usually not for him. Ramsay had found their weak points long ago, and never hesitated to use them, not after they had nearly escaped him.

Kneeling seemed to be sufficient for Ramsay tonight. The first lash burned against Theon's skin. He gritted his teeth. His pain was being used to punish Sansa as much as himself; he couldn't give in yet.

He didn't last long, though. By the fifth lash, tears were running down his cheeks. He'd been ashamed of crying, once. He'd thought it was weakness. Now the tears just reminded him of home. Salt burst onto his cracked lips. _What is dead can never die._ How long had it been since he had said those words? Years. A lifetime. _What is dead can never die._ Once it had been comforting. Now it was a horrible certainty. Theon was dead and undying. He wished for death. He had wished for freedom, once, and then he had learned that they were the same thing. It didn't matter what it was called. It was just as distant as the stars, or Sansa, up on the bed. Maybe she was a star. That made sense. A star that had been dragged down to the world, and all her light had been stolen away.

He'd lost count of the lashes. He'd stopped crying, but Sansa had started. She shouldn't cry. He didn't want her to cry.

When Robb had cried, it had always been loud: big heaving sobs and fat tears, the crying of a child used to being comforted. Sansa had been the same way. Now she cried silently. He wondered how Robb had cried when he learned what Theon had done.

The darkness, when it washed over him, was a mercy.

Theon woke in darkness and silence. Everything hurt, and somehow worse than it had when he had passed out, which meant that Sansa hadn't been allowed to tend to him. He was back in the dungeons. The dirt of the floor clung to his skin.

His side hurt, too; not like he'd been kicked, the dull throbbing ache of his ribs, more like he'd been stabbed. That was odd. Ramsay didn't usually do anything to him while he was unconscious; it wasn't as fun. Maybe a lash had gone astray and hit his side and he hadn't noticed.

"Theon?" Rickon said, voice small. "Are you still mad at me?"

Theon stared at the darkness, trying to find the words to say _I was never mad at you, I could never be mad at you._

Those were probably good ones.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

“I had a dream again, do you want to hear it?”

Theon nodded, then remembered that there was a stone wall and thicker darkness between them. Fuck, breathing hurt. 

“Please,” he managed. 

“I was Shaggydog, and I could see Winterfell, we were really close, and Grey Wind was there, too. We were planning an attack. And, and we got to run around and play. It was nice. There were lots of men there, and they scratched our heads even though we were as big as them. I—I know you don’t think they’re real, but…it felt real. And isn’t there a chance that it was real? Robb would want to rescue us, right? He loves us, he wouldn’t just abandon us.”

 _He wouldn’t,_ Theon wanted to say. _He didn’t. He died betrayed by everyone, he was trying to rescue you from me. You were never abandoned._

Theon fumbled for the tiny hole in the wall that Rickon had chipped out, pushing a finger in and hoping Rickon would notice it.

A moment later, he felt Rickon’s finger against his. It was a small comfort, but at least he could give Rickon that much. 

If it was Robb coming, at least it would be what he deserved. Robb would take his head, quick and clean and merciful, and Sansa and Rickon would probably be sad for a little while, but they’d recover. Sansa would understand that it was for the best, and Robb would be there to protect her, like Theon had tried to do; Rickon would realize that Theon had been the one to drive him from Winterfell in the first place, and hate him just as he deserved. Robb would…

Robb would be sad that their friendship had come to this, that Theon had fallen so far, but the greater part of him would be glad that justice was done. It would probably be a relief to him, to know that Theon couldn’t hurt anyone else again. 

“Theon?” Rickon said. “Are you going to be alright?”

Theon cracked a smile. _Cracked_ was the right word for it; it was agony. 

“I’ll be fine.” If it was Robb, he hoped he lived long enough to apologize. Maybe he could get Rickon to pass on a message, if he wasn’t going to make it that long. And it wouldn’t be a lie, would it? He’d be fine, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, he wouldn’t have to watch Ramsay hurt Sansa, he wouldn’t have to see the baby grow into another Ramsay. He’d be finally free. 

“Did you see Sansa? Was she alright?”

“She’s not hurt,” he said. That was probably not true, but she hadn’t been bleeding when he had lost consciousness, at least. 

“And the baby?”

“Yeah. He’s fine.” That one, at least, was true. Ramsay would never harm his heir, and Sansa wouldn’t harm her child. Robb wouldn’t either. 

Rickon was quiet for a while. “Do you really think that Robb will kill you if he sees you again?”

“I do.” It was what Robb deserved. What Theon deserved. Rickon might not realize it yet, but it was what he deserved, too, to see the man who had driven him from his home finally executed for murder and treason. No amount of cold, twisted comfort Theon could give him could possibly make up for bringing all of this down on them to begin with. 

“I won’t let him. I’d stop him. I promise.” He sounded so much like Sansa, promising to protect him from Jon. 

He hadn’t thought about those nights in a long time. Freedom had tasted like fear; they had dragged their numb, exhausted bodies forward in a battle of miserable inches, listening for the dogs, hardly daring to rest. They’d huddled around small, cold fires, their bodies pressed together for scraps of warmth and comfort. 

She’d been cold, and he’d warmed her. That was what he told himself, kept telling himself. That had been all. There had been nothing else, no quiet words between them, nothing soft except the snowfall and the edges of the shadows. Anything else was too dangerous to even think. Ramsay would know. 

He wished the hole was large enough for his hand to fit through. He hadn’t seen Rickon since the boy had fled Winterfell, even when he was dragged to the dungeons. Ramsay kept them in constant darkness. 

“Please, Rickon, don’t do that.” Oh, this hurt. Every sentence sent fire across his ribs. “At least it’ll be him doing it. He’ll make it quick.” He didn’t dare give voice to the more terrible and more likely option, which was that Ramsay wouldn’t let Rickon live to see the battle’s end. “And you and Sansa wouldn’t need me anymore, he’d be there to protect you.” 

“I’d still want you around!”

Theon would have cried if he had any strength left in him. Oh, poor Rickon, latching onto the monster of his nightmares for comfort in the dark. 

“Theon?” Rickon’s voice wavered. “Could you…I know you’re hurt, but could you tell me a story?”

“Sure,” Theon said, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. “So, a long time ago, there was a prince, and he lived with his siblings and his friend in a castle in the woods. And everything seemed fine. He was well-loved by all the people, who were all animals, because he was a wolf. Right.” Dark spots danced in his vision. “So the wolf prince went to the sea shore, and he took his friend with him. The friend was from the sea, so he knew…knew about the sea.” 

“Was his friend a kraken?”

Theon smiled. “Yeah, buddy. He was.” He shifted just a little, and grit his teeth against the pain as his ribs protested. “And they were best friends, and were never apart. Because the kraken loved his wolf prince, even though he never knew.”

“I think he knew. The prince. I think he knew that his friend loved him. Are you going to die?”

Theon blinked at the sudden change of topic. “I’ll try not to.”

“Good. I don’t want you to die.”

“I know,” Theon whispered. He could add _tricked Rickon into caring about me_ to his list of crimes. Maybe it wasn’t really a crime, but Robb wouldn’t like that he did that. “I know.”

Darkness claimed him once again, and he knew no more. 


	3. Chapter 3

Grey Wind whined as they walked into the lichyard, nosing at Robb’s chest and trying to tug him back. 

“Not now, Grey Wind,” Robb muttered, shaking him off.

Grey Wind sat in front of him, blocking off the path. He put his head on the baby in Robb’s arms, licking his tiny face. 

“Grey Wind, really—“

A baby squalled. 

Robb stopped cold. He looked around for another baby, but it was only him and his nephew in the lichyard. The babe shifted in his arms as he cried louder. 

“Gods be good,” he whispered, adjusting his grip. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, I’ve got you. You must be cold out here, let’s get you inside.” Robb’s breastplate wouldn’t be helping, nor would the snow. “I’ll take you to your mama, how does that sound? I bet you’re hungry.” No, that was a bad idea, Sansa needed to rest, not deal with a crying baby. She deserved to know, though, it would be cruel to let her continue to think that she had killed her child. 

_Get out of the snow first._ He locked away the boy and let the king take over. He couldn’t stop and weep, not yet. He wasn’t done yet. He had to take care of the baby, had to get him inside and get him fed; he had to find Rickon (gods, Rickon!) and he had to get the maester for Sansa and make sure she was fed, and then once he had done all of that—

 _Then_ he could weep. Not before. 

He went to Sansa’s room as soon as he replaced his breastplate with a sling, the baby happily sucking at a linen rag. He hadn’t been hungry, just cold and upset. He’d need a wet nurse eventually, but not yet, it seemed. 

“Sansa?” he called as he nudged the door open. 

Sansa was asleep. She was curled tightly on her side, occasionally twitching a little or mumbling a soft ‘no, please…’

Robb brushed her hair out of her face and kissed her temple lightly. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “Nobody will hurt you. I swear it.”

She whimpered in her sleep and Robb’s heart ached. He closed the door behind him, careful not to disturb her. She’d been a heavy sleeper, once, but he doubted that had survived what she had endured. 

Grey Wind led him down the halls. _At least one of us knows where we should be going._ His nephew was warm against his chest, looking around at Winterfell with wide eyes. 

Robb, somehow, doubted that either Sansa or the baby had been allowed out of that tower room while Ramsay ruled Winterfell. 

He heard Shaggydog before he saw him, howling mournfully. Rickon. Ramsay had claimed he had Rickon, but Robb wasn’t sure how much he could trust the bastard’s word. 

And the less he thought about Theon, the better. If Ramsay had Rickon, then Theon hadn’t killed him. If Theon hadn’t killed him, then…

Robb opened the door to the dungeons and walked through the dark hallways. His father had taken him down here several times as a boy; it had never seemed so dark, nor so drear. Robb lit torches as he passed. The windows had been blocked off, he realized: some with snowdrifts, suggesting simple neglect rather than active malice, and some with boards and stone. If not for the faint light of the torch, Robb wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face. 

More things to do. Robb sighed. He needed to make some sort of list before long, lest something slip his mind and go neglected. 

A distressing number of bones lay in the cells. They’d have to gather them and bury them; whatever they had done to end up in Ramsay’s dungeons, it probably hadn’t been worth the death they received. 

Shaggydog was down here, trying to break down a heavy ironwood door and howling mournfully. Someone on the other side was pounding on the door as well. 

“Back, Shaggy,” he ordered. The massive wolf stepped back, allowing Robb to unlock the door. 

A fur-clad body slammed into Shaggy immediately, face buried in his ruff. 

“Rickon?”

The boy looked up. That was _definitely_ Rickon; he had the same red curls and freckled cheeks that Robb saw in his own reflection. His littlest brother had grown tall and slender, like their mother. He’d probably be taller than Robb in a few years. 

Robb had missed so much of his life, had missed seeing him grow and change. His brother was a stranger to him now.

“Robb?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’ve missed you.”

“Robb!” Rickon cried, running to him and hugging him tightly. Robb pressed his little brother into his chest, tears falling into his curls. He was here and alive and safe; Robb could barely believe it. Rickon didn’t even look hurt. 

“Thank the gods you’re safe. Where’s Bran? Is he here?”

Rickon shook his head. “He went North when we ran away. Please, you need to help Theon, he’s—he’s hurt. I don’t know how bad, but I haven’t heard anything from him for…I think a day? It’s hard to tell.”

“Theon’s here?”

Rickon nodded. “He’s in the cell next to mine. Please, Robb, he protected me and Sansa and the baby, you can’t just let him die, please—“

“I won’t,” Robb said, cutting off Rickon’s babbling. “I don’t know _what_ I’m going to do with him yet, but I’m not going to kill him or let him die.”

Rickon nodded. “How is she?” he asked, quietly.

“Sansa? She’s hurt, but I think she’ll recover.” 

He opened the door of Theon’s cell. For a moment, he thought he’d opened the wrong door. There was a man in there, curled against the wall and trembling, but it couldn’t be Theon.

Rickon shoved past him with a sound of pain, running to his side and turning him over. 

It couldn’t be Theon. It couldn’t. But Robb knew that face. 

If Sansa had been thin, then Theon was a living skeleton. Robb could count his ribs, and several of them looked _wrong_ , moving unnaturally with each labored breath. Large scars covered skin that Robb knew should be inked. His hair was white, his eyes and cheeks sunken. A deep scar ran across his mouth down to his chin, cleaving his jaw in two. His hands were missing fingers. His limbs were limp, draped across Rickon’s lap like a rag doll.

Bruises covered more of his body than not. There was a large, angry gash on his side that was clearly infected, red and swollen and still half-open, and it steadily oozed something that was not blood: it looked more like cream, thick and off-white. 

“Theon?” Rickon said, shaking him gently. “Theon, please, wake up.”

Robb’s paralysis broke, and he walked into the cell, crouching beside Theon. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Rickon shook his head. “Just that Ramsay was angry with him.”

“He can’t stay here,” Robb declared. “I’ll carry him to the maester if you hold the baby.” Robb handed the sling over, draping it over Rickon’s shoulder. “Make sure to support his head.”

“Got it.” Rickon stuck a finger into the sling, letting the baby grab onto it. “Wow, he’s strong.”

Theon was light as a feather, and Robb could feel the fever burning through him. His head lolled against Robb’s arm. Dirt and small bits of gravel clung to his skin. His back had clearly been whipped, and the lashes were weeping the same off-white pus as the gash. Robb felt terrible just holding him, but he didn’t have a better way to carry him. 

It was very hard to remember that Theon had betrayed him when he was trembling with fever in his arms. _Had_ Theon betrayed him? If killing Bran and Rickon was a lie, could the rest have been lies as well? The thought made sense—perhaps Theon had heard of some treachery from the Boltons while on Pyke—perhaps his father had intended to ally with them—and he had gone to Winterfell to defend it and been blamed for what happened, when all along it was Ramsay: Ramsay who put Winterfell to torch, Ramsay who put Bran and Rickon to flight. 

Had he blamed Theon, knowing that none would doubt his story? No one in Robb’s camp but Robb himself had trusted Theon, and even Robb had believed the report that he had killed Bran and Rickon. He should have known it was a lie from the start. He should have known that Theon could never kill a child. 

He’d abandoned Theon to his enemies, let him be tortured and beaten for crimes he hadn’t committed, and all the while he’d been innocent. Had he known that Robb had sent the Boltons? Had he hoped that Robb would come and save him? Had he prayed for Stark banners on the horizon? Had he lost hope that he would be rescued, as the years passed?

Had Robb killed his best friend?

Grey Wind whined when Robb emerged, nosing at Theon’s body and howling mournfully. 

One green eye cracked open. 

“Oh,” he mumbled, barely loud enough to be audible. “M d’d.”

“Not yet,” Robb said. “Rest, go back to sleep. It’ll be alright.”

He mumbled something, weakly clutching at Robb’s chest. His eyes had slipped closed again. 

“Shh, it’s alright, don’t worry.” Whatever Theon was trying to say could wait until the maester had seen to him, until Robb had made sure that he and Rickon were alright. 

“Robb?” Rickon asked, one hand in Robb’s tunic. “Theon’s going to be alright, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Robb said. “I hope so, but I’m not sure. The maester will figure it out and tell us.”

“Um. Theon said some things about Sansa, about how she was protecting him from Ramsay. Are you sure she’s alright?”

He sighed. “She’s…she’s cut up a bit, and I’m going to have the maester check her over after he’s done with Theon. As for everything else…the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know how to even begin helping her. But I’m going to do my best.”

Rickon nodded, chewing the thought over. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

Robb could have laughed at the shift. “She will. Of course she will, Rickon, you’re her little brother, she’ll be so glad to see you.”

“I don’t really remember her. Theon told me some stories, but he’s not always the most…accurate.”

Robb laughed. That sounded like the Theon he knew, full of tall tales and exaggerations. “I wouldn’t take most of his stories seriously. Especially the ones about himself.”

Rickon nodded sagely. “I figured _that_ out already.”

“Smart kid.” If his hands weren’t full of Theon, he’d ruffle his hair. 

“Thanks for coming for us. Theon thought you wouldn’t, but I knew you were coming. You wouldn’t abandon us.”

Robb tried to hide his wince. He would have come eventually, but if Ramsay hadn’t taunted him with his siblings, it wouldn’t have been in time to save them. 

Luckily, he was spared from having to admit that by reaching the maester’s rooms. 

He shifted Theon in his arms. “Could you get the door?”

“Oh!” Rickon said. “Right.” He opened the door and let them into the small antechamber that, thankfully, had a small cot in it so that Robb could lay Theon down. Theon was too light by far, but Robb’s shoulders were still glad of the relief. 

Theon stirred a little, his eyes cracking open. 

“Sansa?” he mumbled. His voice was clearer than it had been. 

“It’s me, Theon, it’s Robb. I reclaimed Winterfell. You’re safe now. I’m going to get the maester to look at your injuries, just stay put.”

“No!” Theon’s eyes widened and he struggled to sit upright. “No, you don’t have to do that for me, I’m fine, it’s nothing, please, you don’t need to sacrifice—it’s not worth it—“ His voice was a hoarse rasp. 

“Theon, Theon, please, breathe for me, it’s fine, you won’t be hurt. Ramsay is dead, Ramsay is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore, he can’t hurt anyone anymore.” He pushed Theon back down. “Rickon, get the maester, tell him that I have a patient for him? Leave the baby with me. Theon, look at me, _look at me_.” He dropped his voice into the more commanding tone he’d learned to use when giving orders. Theon’s fever-glazed eyes met his. “Theon, do you know who I am?”

“You’re.” Theon blinked. “You’re not Sansa, are you,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, you don’t need to apologize. You have a fever. Do you know who I am?”

“R…” he trailed off. “I heard Rickon, earlier.”

“You did. He went to get the maester. Theon, I’m Robb, it’s alright, I’m here, you’re safe.”

“You’re _not_ , you’re not.” Theon scrambled back, pulling away from Robb’s hands. “You’re not, it’s a trick, Robb hates me.”

“I don’t hate you, Theon, I don’t. Rickon told me the truth.”

“I killed Bran and Rickon,” Theon said. “I killed Ser Rodrik and the septon and Maester Luwin and I betrayed you and I burned Winterfell and I…” His voice disappeared into a sob. “I hurt Sansa again and again and I betrayed her too. You shouldn’t waste any time on my. Just kill me, please, I know—I know I don’t deserve any mercy from you, I don’t have any right to ask anything of you, but please, just kill me quick.”

“No,” Robb said. “I won’t.” He didn’t mention that he had just seen Rickon and knew that he and Bran were alive. 

A tear slid down his cheek. Under the glaze of fever, Theon’s eyes had the same dull flatness as Sansa’s. “Please if—Robb, if you ever loved me, please just kill me.”

“Never.”

“Call it justice or call it mercy, just please _kill me_.”

“I _won’t!”_ The word came out harsher than he intended, and Theon flinched. “Theon, I just saw Sansa with a blade to her neck, I’m not going to do the same to you!”

Theon’s eyes welled with tears and they slid down his face one by one, leaving streaks in the dirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Robb sat next to himm, pulling him into his arms. He’d imagined this a dozen different ways on the ride to Winterfell—finding Theon a cackling villain, gloating over Bran and Rickon’s bodies; finding Theon steely-eyed and proud, kneeling for Robb’s sword with silent dignity; finding Theon dead; finding Theon innocent and framed, in his desperate dreams. He never pictured finding Theon tortured and begging for a death sentence that Robb couldn’t deliver. 

“Shh, Theon, it’s alright, I’m not angry with you.” Robb stroked Theon’s hair back from his forehead, placing a kiss to his burning flesh. 

Slowly, his tears dried, and his eyes seemed a bit clearer. 

“Is. I heard a baby, is it…”

“It’s Sansa’s. He’s fine, see?” Robb scooped up the baby from the chair where Rickon left the sling. 

Theon nodded. “That’s good.” He gave Robb a tiny, tearful smile. “At least there’s that. Can I—I understand if you don’t want me to, but can I hold him?”

“Of course you can.” He handed the baby over to Theon, who held him as gently as spun glass. His fingers brushed through the dark red curls above his eyes.

“He’s gotten so big,” he breathed, his eyes sad. Robb wondered how small he had been when Theon had last seen him. 

“Did Sansa name him anything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Ramsay wanted to call him after himself, but Sansa…she wasn’t well when he was born. She’d probably name him for you, we thought you were dead.”

“I’m not going to name him for myself, that’s just confusing,” Robb said. “And I’m definitely not naming him for Ramsay.”

Theon’s eyes were fixed on the baby, who was trying to swallow his own fist. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“What do you mean? He’s going to grow up here, he’s my heir.”

Theon’s head snapped up, eyes flicking from Robb to the baby. “You’re going to make him your _heir?”_

“He’s my sister’s son, and I don’t,” _don’t think about that,_ “I don’t have one of my own. He’s a natural choice.”

“He’s.” Theon swallowed heavily, head dropping down to watch the baby squirm. “He’s a Bolton.”

“No, he’s a Stark. Between delegitimizing Ramsay and annulling his marriage…he’ll be a Stark. Sansa’s child, and hers alone.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Theon asked, softly. 

“Right now? You’re going to see the maester. As for everything else…I don’t know yet. But I’m not going to execute you, I know that much. I don’t want you dead, and besides, I promised Rickon.”

“If it wasn’t for me, he would’ve been safe in Winterfell.”

“Enough, Theon,” Robb said, gently squeezing his hand. “I’m not killing you. You’re going to see the maester and then you’re going to bathe and eat something and rest.” Theon looked like he was about to protest, so he added, “that’s an order from your king,” and offered Theon a shaky grin.

Theon was frozen. His face was ashen, and his hands were trembling around the baby. His gaze was fixed on the ground in front of him. 

“Theon?” Robb laid a hand on his shoulder. Theon flinched, head whipping around to stare at Robb, wide-eyed, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Theon, it’s just me, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Theon’s gaze dropped back down to the baby, who squirmed in his tightening hold. 

“Theon? You’re safe, I promise, Ramsay is dead.”

Theon’s arms tightened further. The baby began to squall. 

The sound of the baby crying snapped Theon out of his daze. He blinked, his eyes focusing on the baby. 

“Shh, shh,” he whispered, arms loosening around him, “shh, hey, I’m here, you’re safe, everything’s alright. There you go.”

“You’re good with him.”

“Raised you lot, didn’t I?” Theon said, and for a moment it was like nothing had changed between them. 

Maester Lucas was an old man that Robb had brought with him from the Riverlands; he had bushy white eyebrows and a habit of tugging on his beard when he thought. He didn’t walk so much as bustle, and always reminded Robb a little bit of a badger. 

“Ah,” he said, as soon as he saw Theon. “This explains some things. Away you get, now, let me work, thank you.”

Robb took the baby and let himself be shooed away from Theon’s side to let the maester work, watching as he tutted over his wounds and wrapped clean white bandages around him. 

“Apparently,” Rickon said, “I’m not good at explaining things. Also, he said I was fine.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” He ruffled Rickon’s hair affectionately. “Theon, will you be alright if I leave you for a while? I need to find a wet nurse for the baby, I want to be prepared for when he gets hungry.”

“I’ll be fine.” His battered hand reached out and rested on the baby’s pate for a long, lingering moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her.”

“I know,” Robb said. “You did what you could.”

“I wish it was more.”

“I wish I had come sooner, maybe I could have prevented all of this.”

Theon opened his mouth to say something, and the baby started fussing. Pain crossed his face, lingering in his eyes. “Go take care of him, Robb. I’ll be alright.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ONE IS A ROUGH ONE, Y'ALL. 
> 
> Warnings for:  
> \- traumatic childbirth  
> \- non-consensual forced pregnancy  
> \- medical neglect  
> \- Ramsay being Incredibly Awful in Many Ways  
> \- non-consensual voyeurism  
> \- stillbirth  
> \- child death  
> \- postpartum depression  
> \- non-consensual sex  
> \- whipping   
> \- basically every possible kind of abuse and non-con you can imagine

Sansa’s screams echoed through her head and against the walls of the room. She had thought she had grown used to pain; groping hands and knives and the cold and the gnawing pit of hunger and the burning pain of Ramsay’s attentions. Each cresting wave of pain was worse than the last. She wondered if she was dying.

There was a lot more blood than she remembered. Mother hadn’t bled so much, had she?

“You’re doing well,” Theon said, holding her hand. She tried to focus on his face instead of on the pain. Her vision wavered and blurred. Ramsay had forbidden the maester or a midwife from being present, deciding that his Reek would be good enough for the task. Never mind that they all knew that Theon had never been in a birthing room before.

She was pretty sure that it was because any maester or midwife would have barred Ramsay from the room, but Theon didn’t dare stand against him. Not like this.

Sansa gasped for air, panting hard as she tried to force the baby out. It felt stuck.

“The head’s out. Just a bit more, my lady.” At least she had Theon. “Come on, you can do it.”

Sansa screamed, and Ramsay moaned with pleasure.  _ Bastard _ .

“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t, please.”

“You can,” he said. “You can, I know you can. Give me a big push, alright?” He rubbed her belly. She didn’t know if he was trying to help push the baby out, but it felt nice. “You’re almost there.”

“It  _ hurts _ .”

“I know,” Theon said. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She knew what he was really saying.

_ I love you. _

The pain crested in another wave, and Sansa lost her grip on time. For a long moment, she floated, weightless, painless. Was she dying? What a horrible way to go, bringing another Ramsay into the world. Then again, at least she’d see her family again, see her mother and father, see Robb again. See Lady again.

Assuming any of them wanted anything to do with her. She’d  _ tried _ , she’d done her best to be ladylike and courteous and  _ good _ , and all it had won her was more pain. She almost wished she had married Joffrey.

A baby wailed, but the pain hadn’t stopped. Distantly, she heard Theon say something about the afterbirth. She sank slowly back into her body. In between the agony, she felt the prickle of blood on her thighs, Theon’s hands between her legs. Ramsay’s moans of pleasure were nearly as loud as her screams.

She turned her head and saw a baby. It was an ugly thing, covered in blood and something greenish. Its limbs wiggled like a bug turned on its back. Its face was red and wrinkled. A cord sprang from its middle, white and swirled with blue and green, running to the bloody mess of the afterbirth. 

Cersei had told her that she’d have no choice but to love her children.

Sansa felt nothing but a rising disgust.

It would be useful. She could leverage the baby against Ramsay’s cruelty. Some part of her knew that she should be horrified with herself, but she couldn’t feel anything but disgust at the ugly squirming thing that had caused her so much suffering.  _ Would _ cause her so much suffering. There was a penis between its legs, small but present; she was obsolete. He’d set his dogs on her, watch her try to run before they ripped her apart. It already felt like she was being torn apart from the inside. 

She wanted to smother it. She reached a hand for it, feeling the small, soft bones. It would be so easy. She could just squeeze…

“I don’t think this is supposed to happen,” Theon said, quietly.

Sansa felt a spike of fear. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“There’s two afterbirths. Either that or this is a really squashed baby.” If she could, she’d roll her eyes at his weak attempt at a jape. Instead she screamed as the pain seized her again. Theon rubbed her belly with a bloody hand. “There’s a foot coming out now, you’re having twins. I really hope this is how twins are born. Give me a good push, Sansa.”

Sansa screamed, gasped, and screamed again. Tears trickled down the sides of her face and made her ears itch.

She didn’t know what she would do without Theon. She would have died long ago, at her own hand or Ramsay’s, and no one would mourn her. Who was left? Robb was dead, Arya gone, Bran missing, Rickon at Ramsay’s mercy…

She screamed again. She thought about dying. It couldn’t possibly hurt more than this.

“Both babies are out.” Theon stroked her hair. His hand left streaks of blood behind. “You’re done.”

Ramsay left the room without a word, pink cloak swishing behind him. His seed was splattered on the floor.

Theon sighed a quiet breath of relief as the door clicked shut.

“What should I do with the cords?” he asked.

“Cut them.”

“I don’t have anything to do that with. I guess my teeth?”

Sansa made an inarticulate noise and slumped against the mattress, exhausted. Theon yelped in alarm, rushing to her.

“‘m alright,” she mumbled, brushing his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“It’s a boy,” she said.

“A boy and a girl. You had twins.”

Ramsay would be pleased.

Theon, very lightly, kissed her hand. She managed a weak smile for him. She wanted to be able to pretend that it was the maester that just left, that it was just her and Theon and their babies, she wanted to be able to love them.

“I suppose I should feed them,” she said. That was what she was supposed to do. Maybe if she pretended that she loved them, she’d feel something instead of the cold.

“Oh. Right.” He handed the girl to her. The babe didn’t move, or open its eyes.

Sansa held a hand to its chest, trying to feel for a breath or a beat.

There was nothing. She might have been holding a doll. Cersei had said that she would love her children, that mothers had no choice in that…but Sansa looked at the babe and felt nothing. The babe was as dead as her heart.

“It’s dead,” she said.

Theon sobbed. Sansa let him take the body from her arms and watched him cradling it and kissing its forehead. He whispered something to it, too soft to hear. His tears fell on its face.

Something in her heart ached. Ramsay wouldn’t grieve, and she couldn’t either. She hurt for Theon’s grief, but felt nothing for the small body in his arms.

“What do we do with it?” she whispered.

“I can. I can bury her. By the weirwood. I’ll do it when I take the afterbirths out.” Theon seemed to clutch the baby closer. “Poor girl. It might be a mercy that she never saw the world.”

The boy beside Sansa squalled, and Sansa lifted it up, nestling it against her breast. This one was alive, and latched eagerly onto her. Mother had said that it had felt nice to feed them, to hold them close to her and nurse them.

The thought of Mother made Sansa sob anew.

Theon stroked her hair and sighed. “I wish…”

“Don’t,” Sansa said. “Don’t wish. There’s enough heartache in the world without impossible wishes.”

“Not impossible,” he whispered. “A kiss, my lady? For your poor fool?”

She kissed him, one hand on his cheek. His lips were a soft, secret touch, the music of a plucked harp-string.

“And what’s this?” Ramsay asked. Terror froze them both. “Lady Bolton, what were you doing?”

“Please,” Theon said, “please, no, my lord, it was my fault, I tricked her into kissing me, I begged her and she—you know she has a soft heart, my lord, I took advantage of her.”

“Be silent, Reek, and you know you aren’t allowed on the furniture. Get off her bed, you’ll dirty it.”

Theon knelt by her feet, head bowed. Sansa’s heart ached.

“Now, my lady wife, was what Reek said true? Which one of you should be punished?”

Theon glanced up at her. He mouthed the word  _ me. Blame me. _

“…Reek, my lord husband. I’m sorry I was so foolish as to take pity on him.”

Ramsay smiled and seized her chin, kissing her roughly. “Good girl,” he hissed.

Her stomach roiled with disgust.

“Now, my dear wife, I have food for you.” He uncovered a tray. “You must be so exhausted from your labor. Eat up.”

He set the tray on her lap.

“Of course, there’s just not enough food to go around, so you eating means that someone else will go without, but—such is life.” He smiled a cold, snake-eyed smile. Sansa wanted so very badly to stab him.

“M-my lord,” Sansa said, carefully. “You have a son, and I…I will need more food to sustain him, please.”

Ramsay’s smile grew. “Now, I think you know how to earn a favor from me.”

“She’s exhausted from the birth of  _ your _ heir, you can’t possibly expect her to—“

Sansa flinched even before Ramsay moved.  _ Theon, _ she thought.  _ You stupid, noble boy. _ Ramsay’s hand clenched in Theon’s hair, slamming his forehead into the stone floor. Blood dripped into his eyes.

“You really are forgetting your place today, Reek. First you sit on Lady Bolton’s bed, dirtying it, then you trick her into kissing you, and now speaking back? I think punishment is in order, to teach you to mind your betters.”

_ Theon’s your better, bastard, _ Sansa thought, but said instead, “please, my lord, have some mercy on him. He’s only a poor fool. The birth has just made him excited. Send him out to bury the afterbirths, and I’m sure he’ll calm.” She set the baby down on the bed and knelt at Ramsay’s feet, steeling herself.

The cherished daughter of Lord Eddard Stark would have been mortified of the thought of using her mouth on a bastard like this. The battered wife of Ramsay Bolton was quietly revolted instead.

It didn’t take long. Ramsay never lasted long. Sansa tried not to gag as he thrust roughly into her throat and spent. She wanted to spit it out—or better yet, spew it across his boots, along with what little was in her stomach—but she swallowed it instead. Vomiting would only make her hungrier, and there wasn’t food to spare on being petty.

“There, was that so awful?” He patted her head. “And you’ve had some extra nourishment. Well, I’m sure our little lordling won’t mind giving up some of his food for you.”

Stupid, stupid girl, what had she done? She should have guessed that Ramsay would do this.

“No, please, d-don’t take it from Rickon.”

“But why not? Oh, the soft heart of a woman could never really understand this, but it’s the cold equations: some few must die for the sake of the rest.”

_ You eat swan every night _ , she thought.  _ And there would be plenty if Winterfell wasn’t burned _ .

“Why do you care? Stupid animal instinct, valuing your blood above all? A womanish soft heart? You benefit from this. You wanted more food, and I have been generous and provided, just as I have provided you with warmth and shelter and a babe to occupy your days. Be a grateful little wife and accept the cold, hard truth of the world. You’re not in the South anymore, being pampered and spoiled. You could never understand the harsh truth of the North.”

_ I am the daughter of Winterfell, you stupid, self-important bastard. Have you forgotten my name? _

He slapped her, his face full of bored disinterest as he sent her sprawling.  “Now, Reek, you still need your punishment. Come here. And help Lady Bolton to her feet.”

Theon’s hands were gentle, but left red stains on her palms and on her elbow where he steadied her. Her head swam as she stood.

“I think it would be best for Lady Bolton to administer your punishment, don’t you agree, Reek?”

“Yes, my lord,” Theon said.

“My lord,” Sansa said, “I don’t think I—“

“Of course you don’t  _ think _ , my lady wife, that’s why you have a lord husband. Come along.”

Ramsay took them down to the dungeon. Sansa tried not to look too faint or lean too heavily on Theon, though she could feel blood still trickling down her thigh. It would be a delicate line, like it always was when he decided to have Sansa punish Theon: trying not to hurt Theon, while still looking like he had been punished enough. And, of course, now there would be the added struggle of not fainting in the middle of it.

Ramsay handed her the whip.

“I’m sorry,” Theon said.

_ I love you.  _ She wished she could say it back. 

“My lord,” she asked, “how long shall I whip him?”

“Until he bleeds,” Ramsay said.

“That would go faster if you let me use a knife.”

Ramsay laughed and chucked her chin. “Get going.”

“Yes, my lord.”  _ I’m sorry, Theon _ , she thought.

Sansa raised the whip and brought it down with a sharp  _ crack _ . A large red welt appeared on Theon’s back as he writhed in pain. She gave him three more lashes, all in the same spot. Theon screamed, his back arching in pain.

A trickle of blood ran down his skin.

Sansa felt faint. Her head swam, and she swayed on her feet.

“My lord, are you satisfied?”

“For now. Reek, attend to Lady Bolton.” Ramsay cut through the ropes holding Theon up in a swift motion. Theon rushed to her side, catching her as she sagged.

“My lady,” he said, his voice low. “Are you well?”

“Some rest, and I will be. Please assist me upstairs?” She felt suddenly hot and flushed, her head spinning.

“Of course.”

Sansa barely managed to make it out of the dungeon before her vision went dark entirely.

She woke again in the bed, a rough blanket tucked around her. Theon stood nearby, holding a babe in his arms and cooing to it. The wound on his back had been covered with a strip of bandage from her chest.   


“Wh’happened?”

“You fainted,” he said. “I carried you back upstairs. How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” she said. “Why are you holding the baby?”

“He was crying,” Theon said. “And you were asleep.”

“Where’s the other one?”

“I buried her under the weirwood with the afterbirths.” There were traces of blood around his mouth, and the babe’s cord was torn with a ragged edge. “Here, eat something.” Theon set the tray on her lap.

“You should eat something, too.”

“You just gave birth, Sansa. I’ll be fine.” His stomach snarled.

“Please, Theon,” she whispered. “I won’t eat until you do.”

He sighed and tore a small piece of bread off the loaf. “Now eat, please.”

Sansa took a bite of the hard loaf. “I want you to eat, too.”

“I will.” Theon nibbled the small piece in his hand. “See? Eating. Please, Sansa, take the rest, I’m not hungry.”

The baby wailed, and Sansa flinched away.

“Shh, shh,” Theon soothed, bouncing it. “Shh, see, I’m here, you’re safe, everything’s fine, shh, sweet boy.”

Sansa sighed and took another bite of the bread. “I suppose I should feed it.”

Theon kissed her forehead as he handed it to her. “He looks like you,” he said, as though it was a comfort. “He’ll be handsome, I can tell.”

“And as cruel as Ramsay.”

“No.” Theon smiled. “He’ll be just like you.”

Sansa was sure Theon meant it as a compliment, but as she looked at the squalling, squirming thing in her arms and felt nothing, she knew that there wasn’t much difference.


End file.
